Miss Melancholy Melody.

It's two in the morning
I'm listening to music
missing you

Melancholy Melody
pounding through my bones
in my ears
in my heart
my heart keeps still
as she wraps cool fingers
around me

Melancholy Melody
won't you
rock me to sleep
won't you
stay by my side
till I draw my last breath
and open my eyes
in blinding white

Melancholy Melody
nothing feels
the way this does
this building tension
pulled taut
contrained
wrists bound
and then ropes broken
release

Melancholy Melody
come back to bed
let me coo you to sleep
let me keep scrawling nothings
into your consonant notes
smashing into cadence
where there is none
come keep me company
my sweet sweet

Melancholy Melody.

- - -

I wrote this a few days ago. It was very late and I was listening to music, and it was so sad and so beautiful. I just started scribbling as I listened. This is barely edited; just the poem I originally wrote. It felt so good raw, that I didn't want to go back and clean it up. It's also loooong. The longest poem I've ever written probably.

Close To The Finish.

So close
to the surface
so close to breath
but my lungs
collapse
under all the pressure.
So close
I'm flailing
sinking
spluttering
I don't know
how much longer
I'll be in limbo.

- - -

It has been far too long. I've been yearning to write something free of form, free of rules, all my own. University writing is so dry. And it's draining having to think in terms of citations and word count. Thank goodness the semester is coming to a close. I'm almost to the finish line, but I'm out of breath. I hope I've got just one more sprint in me.

I'm hoping to write a lot over Christmas break. I want to write and sleep and not worry about buss times, class times, or due dates. I don't want to think about tuition, outstanding library fees, or the cost of new school supplies. I think the break will be like the first bite of spring air in a world glazed with winter: Warm and invigorating.

Missing Fact, A Poem By Steven Heighton.

Sometimes time turns perfect rhyme to slant,
as in Wyatt’s famous sonnet - how the couplet
no longer chimes, his “ame” turned “am,” now coupled
more by pattern, form. So everything gets bent
and tuned by time’s tectonic slippage. You and
I, for instance, no longer click or chord
the sharp way we did, when secretly wired
two decades back (not fifty - but then human
prosody shifts faster); and surely that’s best -
half-rhyme better suits the human, and consonance,
not a flawless fit, is mostly what counts
over years. But, still, this urge (from the past?
our genes?) to shirk all, for one more perfect-
coupling rhyme: for two again as one pure fact.

-Steven Heighton, “Missing Fact,” The Address Book

- - -

This is one of my all time favorite poems, by one of my all time favorite poets. There's just something about this piece that makes me keep coming back to it. When I was first introduced to it (early last year), I felt it had a lot to do with relationships, and the way time tends to make us lose our focus. Things change, basically.

Recently I wrote a 1500 word paper on sexist and racist language for my Grammar/Composition class, and I stumbled across this little verse again. After having my brain all twisted up with sexism/racism, the poem had a slightly different edge: Not only does it speak about relationships, but also about things that are said, and how the meaning becomes dull and dusty as time goes on.

Anyways, just thought I'd share. Really, I think this poem is just a masterpiece, a whetstone for us all to sharpen our wit with.

Toil.

I toil for hours,
and find myself
taking small immeasurable steps.
I bang against a ceiling
reinforced with iron.
The bolts
don't come loose
easily.
And beyond this
is a brick wall to climb.

Eggs.

- - -

Isn't he just a darling? I love this picture so much: it commemorates a wonderful evening with three of the coolest people I know. It's times like these when I remember how much friends can keep you grounded.

Bus in October.

A dull roar.
Leaves on the curb
swirl twist and kiss--
they dance
on a chilled October day.
The bus presses on,
a dull roar spurring life
into dead yellow.

Jangling Dissonance.

My heart
is built
from the bottom up
with jangling dissonance.
I feel only
flowing harmony
when we are one.

StormBreak.

The sky is at it's clearest
after the storm.
You step outside
breath in crisp,
moist air,
and gaze upon
painted blue.
In a moment
you transcend small everyday life,
and see with utmost clarity
the blemishes of this world.

The Line.

Do you see the ocean
or the blue blue sky?
All I see
is a fine line
between the two,
a narrow path,
an acrobat's tight rope.
This is a fine line to walk.

What Are We?

Are we two halves of a whole,
or two wholes?
Are you my better half
or
Are you the one
that evens me out?

Another Student Drowns.

Treading water,
my bones ache,
and my muscles burn,
and my brain screams.
It's all too much,
I'll drown like this--
please stay afloat.

- - -

This was inspired by Taylor and her blog Cause and Affection. Her most recent post was just touching on the hardships of College/University, and I know I've been sharing some of the same feelings of late. So yeah. :)

SunRise.

The sky is stained
with red, red ink.
The deep mask of night
flounders
and falls
to the blue face
of day.

We're All A Bunch of Stupid Teenagers.

Earlier this evening, and friend of mind (whom I believe is approximately twenty four) posted this unbecoming message as a Facebook status:

"has never hated teenagers so much as she does these days. WHY ARE YOU ALL SO RETARDED. Overly sensitive, emo lovin' preppy bland brand name skankin' disrespectful idiotic arrogant little brats! With the acception of a few, I cannot STAND teenagers! Gah."

Originally when I read this, my intentions were to go into full on troll mode and start bashing every inch of this with angry, half formulated thoughts. And then I kind of thought: "What a brilliant blogging moment!"

So here it is.

I want to start off with saying that I think a majority of teenagers get a bad rap. I know many young, well adjusted teenagers. I'm not going to say that there aren't any that might just be bad eggs, but I truly believe there are many more finely reared youth than my friend is clearly aware of.

Yes, we kids sometimes make stupid mistakes. We sometimes speak or act with arrogance, we sometimes talk back to a figure of authority. We sometimes lash out in momentary rebelliousness. But I suggest to you that these are merely an unfortunate part of growing up.

And not to mention that teenagedom means puberty, which means all sorts of wonderful hormonal and chemical changes are going on in our bodies and yeah, that does tend to make some kids get a little "overly sensitive" or "emo".

Being a teenager means walking that fine line between child and adult, a strange in between world where things sometimes don't make sense. And somehow we're supposed to figure out who we are and what we're supposed to do and where we're supposed to go. Society tells us that education is all about YOU. Your career is all about YOU. Your life is all about YOU. YOU are an individual and no one is like YOU. And then we wonder why kids seem so self involved?

The last little bit I just want to direct to anyone who has had a bad experience with a rowdy group of teenagers.What I want to point out is that everybody was a teenager at some point. Everybody has made mistakes and has had to grow and learn from them. Everybody has had and will have to mature at some point in their lives. Being and acting stupid is simply a part of this growing up process.

I want to put out there that I am in no way justifying or defending the acts of raucous teenagers. What I am trying to point out with the above post is the logical fallacy of a young adult whom claims to, in general, hate teenagers and young people-- though she is just barely out of the realm herself.

Let me know what you think!

The Meaning.

Words are arbitrary.
Symbols,
strung to meaning--
A definition
attached
to a group of sounds,
but sounds
can change.
The meaning
stays the same.

Leaky Faucet - Haiku.

A single drip
pervades
complete silence.

- - -

I think I'm getting sick. :(

In other news, I saw Maroon 5 in concert yesterday. They were awesome! The sound quality was good and the actual performing was sleek and nice to watch. Good concert experience in general.

Listen.

Listen
for the sound
of a soft sigh
a tired eye
for the locked up boys
and all the caged up joys.
Listen
for the sound
of a song fading out
a withering sprout.
Listen
for the sound
of an unsung hero
the washed up zero.
I listen for the sound
of something
I've not yet found.

- - -

A spur of the moment poem. I'm not much for rhymes usually, but I just felt like today I needed to write something and that something just happened to rhyme.

Jazz.

Old lithe fingers
bring to life
music with
an old lithe soul--
A rhythmic beat
that fills my heart
my ears.

- - -

I am really digging Blogger's new interface. So nice and sleek looking!

Poor Little Dusty Blog!

Wow, I am so deeply sorry for this summer. It's not like I've been insanely busy, but I just haven't written anything. Either way, I suppose with starting school tomorrow that it's time to dust off my cute little bloggity blog. :)

I promise I'll have something sufficient to post tomorrow, and if I don't, someone please send me angry spam messages. I think it's time to kick my but back into gear.

Music.

I'm sorry there haven't been many posts from me lately. I'm sure I've left you dissappointed in me. I don't really have an excuse-- there just hasn't been much to write about. Summer really is dragging on this year; it feels like a million miles until next semester.

BUT. I am heading over to British Columbia tommorrow for a whole week, which promises to be an excruciatingly fun time. I promise I'll write something about majestic mountains, saphire skies, and endless evergreens for you to read when I get back.

Anyways, to the point of this post. I've been hooked on a few really sweet bands, and I wanted to share them with you guys.

Beggars - This first band has the sad misfortune of sharing their name with several others. But their music has a unique indie rock flavor to it and I could listen to their ep over and over and over and still love it.

W!nslow - An awesome punk band with tons of great lyrics and elements from other genres. Loved them when they came to Edmonton, such a fun show to see!

How True Artists Play The Guitar.

- - -

My brother took this picture of me while I was playing guitar. And wearing a tamborine on my head. And I also don't know how to wear necklaces.

Just thought I'd share. :)

Smudge - Prose.

Sweet grass smoke stifles the room with the chilling presense of spirituality. As the shell is passed around and each person douses themselves in a moment of silent prayer, I find myself wondering what it is they're praying for, what it is they hope to bless. The shell is set before me and I take a moment to wash myself in the haze. My face, my hands, my heart. I pass the smudging bowl on before I realize I forgot to pray.

Termites and Maggots.

Termites doused in lies
chew holes through the very floor
I stand upon.
And maggots
deceit filled and rotting
become flies.
And they whisper
hushed buzzes in my ear
whip around me
with hungry eyes.

Two Long Years Ago.

Two years ago, I started this blog. Two years ago feels such like a long time; I've changed so much. I've grown up a little. I've felt moments of warm gratitude and moments of indifference. I've felt lost and found again, I've made friends, lost friends, regained friends. I've felt the heated fingertips of love, the cold smack of losing it. I've learned, I've forgotten. I've forgiven and been forgiven. And somehow, I've blogged about it all.
It's amazing to think that almost three hundred posts later, I'm still finding things to write about. And I'm still discovering.

And it wouldn't be right to celebrate how far I've come without thanking a few people:

The Sqaure Corner - Who gave me a lot of support, especially in the beginning (I think you were the first person to actually comment here!), and who taught me a certain sense of mystery. I always loved reading your poems and wondering what you were getting at.

Human Paradox - Who inspired me to always try to write with a sense of rhythm. You showed me rhyming could be cool (never really liked it till I stumbled across your blog). Thank you also for the mad support, it is so appreciated.

Old Ollie - Who showed me poems with real zen. I admire your short and sweet and to the point style of writing. You have a good balance between going with the flow and being concise, and I find a lot of inspiration in your work.

Taylor - For a number of things, but especially for being close to my age but still having such a deep afection for words. I see a lot of myself in your musings, and I thank you for giving me something to read and smile at late at night.

Also thanks to anyone else who has posted here, showed support, or left a piece of advice. I love opening the comments field to see a new fragment of wisdom that's been left behind. There is too many people to thank personally (and I'm afraid of forgetting anyone), so pat yourselves on the back and take this huge THANK YOU as a special present! :D

And finally thank you to all my friends and family (and boyfriend, who endures my love of poetry and other things, though they are not his favorite!) that have stopped by and read even a single sentence. Thanks especially to Half of Mac and Cheese. It means so much to me that anyone would take even thirty seconds of their day to read what I (sometimes) dump haphazardly on the internet.

Here's to two years and more to come!

But now it's late, and I'm tired.

Bleeding Punk.

Smoky room
sweat drenched skin
feet pounding
a beer soaked floor.
Panting bodies push together
the pit swells--
we bleed Punk Rock.

The Cafe.

A crowded room,
sickly sweet aroma
of coffee
falls like ribbons
all around me.
The twang of
an acoustic guitar,
chairs scraped closer,
and we all lean in
to hear the music.

Update.

Tommorrow, or rather, later today as it's after midnight, I'll write my last diploma exam. And then I'll be done high school. FOREVER.

I find it very hard to express how I feel about this. I'm happy, boy am I ever happy to be done. But it also feels really strange and kind of sad. People that I've grown with, people that have been apart of my life for years now are suddenly going to disappear. And I might never see then again. Not that I feel like this is a terrible thing, just a thing.

Anyways, in other news, life has been it's average hectic self and it's also been full of a lot of guitar playing. My friend and I are going to be performing soon, at a little cafe a few minutes from my house. We've been practising hardcore!

I have been writing a bit too, there just hasn't been much that's blog worthy. Sorry. :D I've also been reading tons lately, more than I have since I started high school. Currently I'm plowing through my favorite book again: Scar Night by Alan Campbell. The writing is so superb, it makes me jealous. And I love all the characters; such good antiheros and antagonists. Read it if you haven't already! But save money and don't get the second and third books; they were dissapointing after the masterpiece of Scar Night. In my opinion anyways.

So yeah, that's the past little while in a nutshell. I'll be posting more writing soon I promise, and also something I've been thinking of putting up for a little while now.

Until later!

Guitar.

Fingers numb
from the strum
of a steel string guitar.
A mindless progression
of chords
to take my thoughts
far away.
An E minor
never sounded
any finer.

Rolling In The Deep.

- - -

So I'm back from a week of absence. The last little bit has just been crazy now that school is winding down. Tons of studying and preparing for graduation and then actually going to the ceremony. Just crazy. But a lot of fun as well! I don't normally revel in dressing up, but I really enjoyed my day of looking pretty and telling other people that they looked pretty and smiling for pictures and dancing and partying hard until the sun started peeking out from the mask of night. Maybe I'll post a picture for you all to see.

Anyways, just wanted to share this awesome music video. I was introduced to the song by a friend, who then asked me to accompany her for her final choir project. She suckered me in with the best friend thing, and now I'm learning it on the guitar, so it's all I've been listening to for the past few days. Post your thoughts about the video, I want to hear what you have to say about it.

A Bench.

A bench in dappled shade,
green lichen creeping up
worn metal arms.
I'd like to sit here
with you,
and watch
misty strangers
idle by.

The Elephant's Day.

Eloquent
Lilly pad
Ears
Parry voracious
Heat
And
Nipping flies until
Twilight.

- - -

I like acrostics. They're easy and fun to write, and in a time of pressure, they help my creative brain keep churning.

Speak Softly.

Sharp whispers
Pierce my
Ears.
All you
Know is

Soft
Overlay, gradients
Falling over
Tones of
Lithe, hushed
Youth.

After Rain I Walk.

Crisp
beads of rain
a sky overcast
with clouds
of grey cotton.
The chill of after rain,
has me shivering.

Or maybe
the walk home
is just too short.

A Nervous Encounter.

A moment
of throbbing fear.
A million hammers
in my throat,
chest,
heart.
Your heavy
bated breath too close,
cold fingers
creeping up my back
as moist lips
whisper what I know.
I brought this on,
yet I never
wanted it.

A Starving Smile.

A smile,
teeth and lips
starving for a kiss,
a taste,
a touch
of freedom.

Mazzfest!

I just got back from a big music festival called Mazzfest in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. It was the first time I've ever been on a road trip without some sort of family. And it was honestly a blast. We beasically got into the truck saturday morning, drove for six hours, then moshed from two in the afternoon to almost midnight, and then camped out for the night. I just got back a few hours ago, dirty and tired and sore and so happy I had the oppurtunity to go.

I definitely want to go again next year!!

Unmistakable Heat.

I.
Heat
and the unmistakable wind.
The tree cracked
and fell,
and we were there
to hear it's crumple.

II.
Heat
and the unmistakable smell
of new life, old leaves,
forest and creeping ants
all around us.

III.
The Heat
was unmistakable
and crackled
like lightning in the air,
and between
the two of us.

- - -

This is a memory, so forgive me if is a) vague and b) hard to piece together. I don't think I'll ever forget that Sunday afternoon. Part of me wants to. Part of me wants to look back and laugh and think about how silly it was. That part wants to forget. And another part whispers in my ear that it was a turning point.

Well.

I keep flip flopping back and forth. One day I'm excited about university, the next I'm freaking about how to pay for it all, and the day after that I'm dying to get out of highschool, and then the day after that I'm too afraid to leave. It's been kind of a mental rollercoaster of a week so far, but the weekend (still so far off) promises relief.

Headache.

Head smushed
against the pillow
sounds are nails
grating on a chalkboard.
I hear my own breath,
heavy with sleep.
My feet are cold,
and yet warm.

- - -

I enrolled in my classes for next term. University is looking more and more appealing, and less scary the more I learn about how everything works. I getting excited and I haven't even graduated yet. :)

RollerCoaster.

This life is like
a graceful rollercoaster,
with ups
downs
gentle waves of release
and then pull.
A slow,
dull thud
fills your stomach
as it descends,
always followed
by a steady lifting of spirits
and the inevitable,
eloquent crash.

Good Morning!

Well, yesterday was my birthday. It still feels like today cause I haven't gone to sleep yet (it's very late at night), and I must say that despite my insistance that I did not want to be showered with gifts, affection, or offers to get 'smashed', it all happened and it was all enjoyable.

I'm excited to be moving towards the next step in my life, but also a little afraid of what that might all mean.

Shake.

You freeze me in place at times,
your cool stare
judging
my slight, fidgeting movements.
I shake
because
I'm too afraid to step out of line;
You shake
because your body yearns
to pounce.

Quiet.

Relishing this moment
of quiet contentment--
a second of simplicity
sandwiched between
the rushing, garbled
sections of an hour.
I lean back,
shift into
quiet solitude.

- - -

First AP exam tommorrow. It's English Literature and Composition, so I'm not overly worried about it. English is, after all, my favorite subject. :) The bisggest thing I worry about with these exams is the amount of class time I have to miss to write it-- it's almost not even worth it.

But no big deal I guess.

Blinded By Something.

If she was blinded by faith
then you were blinded
by your all too clear
skepticism.
A snail to a slug, you said.
But like all colors in life,
this thing you speak of
lies upon a spectrum.
One in which you are
clear pale blue,
and I am
bright voracious red.

- - -

So this next week is going to be hell. And then things should wind down a bit. Finally. Why does life have to be so busy right now? All I want for the moment is to live and learn and turn eighteen on a day not crowded by other events. Life isn't so simple it seems.

Anyways, this poem was inspired by something a friend said to me. We were talking about an aqaintance, an extremely religious one, and my friend said to me, "It's sad to think that she's been blinded by her religion." This has stuck in my brain for quite some time now, and I always go back to it and wonder. Well, the other day I was--as I often do-- wondering about it again and another thought cropped up in my brain. I felt like my friend when she said this, and when she says other things, that she was blinded by something too. My friend is blinded by her own skepticism, her own clarity of thought.

And then I started thinking about what other things you could be blinded by. I'm most often blinded by cynicsim, or love, or passion, or fear. What blinds you? What makes you think one way or another, what most affects your thoughts towards politics, world events, local events, music, art, industry?

What are you influenced by?

Eyes that Tire.

Eyes sunken,
lost and wandering
without reason.
Blurry edges
still unfocused,
my visions fade
with each minute further
into the waning night.

- - -

First poem in a while. YES.

Long Time No See!

Wow, it's been a long time since I put anything here. Sorry fellow bloggers-- life has just been a real drag lately, and I know you've all heard me say that before. I keep amazing myself with how much work graduation from highschool actually is, and I'm not even doing much! I've got friends whose workloads far exceed my own.

In any case. I just wanted to post something so that I don't fall into a habit of non-writing. That would be utter doom for me-- it's my best talent. The thought of it just fading away, like water eveaporating from a cup, is simply terrifying. I will do my best to keep posting through the next two months, but do expect a few wordless late nights from me. Once I'm done with school things will pick up again. Promise!

One last thing. Recently I've been reading a volume of poetry called The Fly in Autumn, by David Zieroth and it is really good! I'm blown away by a lot of the thoughts and the phrases and the rawness of the line breaks. A canadian poet and a really good read.

The Brandy Snifter - Prose.

He broke the brandy snifter that day; she had a big ornamental one that sat on the edge of her desk, the sheen of the glass faded with dust.

What is must have been like to watch it shatter—the sparkling glass collapsing and cracking into a million shards of mirrors. Each one glinted with the dim yellow light of bulb above. Each one collided with the ground and ricocheted in all directions, the abstract, macabre shapes burying themselves into aging brown carpet.

What it must have been like, to watch her entire life shatter to pieces in a single second.

What it must have been like to lose him that day.

- - -

Wow, how lame. School is terrible: it feels like I've done nothing else for days but homework, study, go back school. My creative brain feels drained.

Poem X - Mountain.

Lost
beat
broken down
and I rise again.
A mountain
is unmovable.

- - -

Day late. My weekend was havoc in the form of work. Sunday came and I felt completely drained.

Poem IX - A Sure Sign.

Waiting for you
is a sure sign
I'm waiting
for something.

Poem VIII - Ventriloquist.

Ventriloquist;
Mouth agape
words shoved in--
his lips
never make a ripple.
Anything he wants,
and I'll say it for him.
Hands
so tightly coiled
around my brain
my body
my spirit
is diminished,
and made false.

Poem VII - A Day of Empty.

Today
my mind
is a blank slate.
All that's on
the back burner
are parasitic worries
that I wish I didn't have.
I want everything
for you
and nothing
for myself.

- - -

Somedays my brain just takes a hike. A hike that takes it far away across the mountains, across the plains, across the sea sometimes. Wednesday I felt so detached from everyone-- present in body, not really in spirit or in mind. I do this purposely sometimes when I'm worried or stressed about things.

/

Poem VI - Spring Puddle.

Pools
of reflections--
trees and sky
beneath my feet.
Serenity
disturbed
by rhythmic steps.
Ripples spread
far as I can see.

- - -

There are lots of puddles around here lately, with all the good weather we've been having. It's kind of nice to see that the spring hasn't abandoned us Canadians just yet. Although with all the spring melt comes leaks. And our house is prone to them. A lot of the carpet in the basement (where my room happens to be) is drenched with cold snow water coming from the gutters. It's no fun to step in a wet spot and feel chills dash through your toes. Thankfully, the carpet in my room seems unharmed.

So far, NaPoWriMo is going awesome for me. Script Frenzy, not so much. I was doing fine until school started up again, and now I find myself with studying and homework to keep up with. Ah well. the good thing is we're still early into the month, and whatever I get done is certainly better than nothing.

Poem V - A Cave.

What brings you here,
down into this
cold dank cave?
Crawling
on hands and knees,
cold mud
squished between fingers,
white cotten dress
soiled and caked.
It just gets
darker
and darker
from here.

Poem IV - Sweet Wonderings.

Late at night
I'm always left
wondering
what tommorrow
will bring,
If you'll still be there,
blue eyes dark hair,
to grace me with
callous humor
and embrace me--
warm lips
wrapped around mine.

Poem III - A Sunny Highway Tends To Be Sluggish.

I watch
languid traffic
move down
a sluggish highway
as I wait
for a lazy
taxi cab.

Poem II - New Words.

New words
sometimes come slowly--
they have to brew,
steep,
like a good cup
of green tea.
Then,
you breath in the aroma
of those new words
and wonder why
they took so long
to fester.

Poem I - Insomnia.

Some obscure time
in the morning,
I lay away awake.
And I stare
at a ceiling
shrouded in shadow.
Thinking,
I know,
it's too late
to be thinking.
But it's also
too late
to drift to sleep.

- - -

The first poem of NaPoWriMo. :) I was so excited I couldn't lay in bed until morning, so I had to get up and just write something.

I'm going to do Script Frenzy as well this year, so I might post little blurbs for that as well. I've already decided that Johnny Depp would play the main character of this screen play. His face and tormented soul act (Secret Window, go see it!) was just perfect for the character I have in mind.

A Father There.

Old photos
broken frames;
It's all I have
but it's not the same.
Visceral childhood dreams
of you--
Your hair is tame,
and your voice is lame
but you are my father
there.
With heavy, wakening eyes
you are simply
a man
unknown to me.

- - -

I was going to put up a big angry rant about my father to go with this. I even had it all typed out-- but then a hard lump worked its way into my throat, so I deleted it all. So you fellas just get the poem today.

Tons of Upcoming Events, Check 'Em Out!

Wow there are quite a few things happening for us writers in the coming month of April. It's exciting stuff, I know!

1) A blogger that I read relatively frequently mentioned National Poetry Writing Month on a post on their blog. I got interested and did some looking around, did some reading, and decided to give it a whirl. The goal is to write a poem everyday for the month of April. So 30 poems in thirty days. Doesn't sound too hard; I think I can do it.

NaPoWriMo

And check out ZouxZoux's blog too: My Secret Voice Whispering In Your Ear.

2) Script Frenzy starts April 1st as well. I've mentioned it before, but I'll mention it again. 30 days to write 100 pages of a script, screenplay, tv show, what have you. I've a few ideas rattling around in my head, it's just the sitting down and writing part. I've never even attempted to write a script or play before, so it's pretty much garanteed to be a gong show. I did a little calculator work, and figured that you could write 3.3 pages everyday for thirty days and you should be done on time. Or something like that. Either way, I feel like it's entirely plausible to write that much.

Script Frenzy

And this one is the biggie:

3) The Montreal Poetry Prize has just been launched recently (my bestest friend's mom brought it to my attention, Thanks Laurie! And Kelly too. :D ), and it's supposed to be the biggest international poetry award ever. The prize of $ 50,000 goes to one selected poem, and the top 50 get published in an anthology of some kind. I'm still reading about it, still deciding if I want to try for it, but in good spirit I thought I should share this with all the wonderful writers I've had the oppurtunity to read.

Montreal Poetry Prize

Now is the time to go forth and write!

In The Night.

I write
by candlelight
in the dark gloom
of Night
closing in at my sides.
He embraces me,
comforts me--
runs long fingers
through my hair
down my shoulders
touching my spine
as I write
to the comfort
of long, dark Night.

- - -

Script Frenzy starts in April. I wonder if I should try it this year. It's essentially the same thing as NaNoWriMo, just in script format. 30 days, 100 pages is how they describe it. I guess we'll see how busy it gets after spring break! :)

A Gallop.

Hooves trample
sod and soil.
Each muscle ripples
with forward motion.
The sun smiles,
bears down,
at your back.
It glimmers
on hazelnut skin.
The wind
tangles your mane--
and suddenly
all thought
is lost.
There is just
that constant stretch;
the constant
systematic motion
of a gallop.

Too Cold For Wet Feet.

Walking circles
in cool march air.
Crumbling ice
cracking into slush
under feet that long
to get wet.

Bad Kid.

I succumb
to that chilling smile--
though hair stands
upright
upon the nape of my neck.
I can't help it;
you are too
delightfully bad.

- - -

Ha! Written because I was pressured to do so. But there-- I did it. :)

Writing has been hard lately, though I'm not sure why. Might have something to do with my growing nervousness (what with college and stuff), and my growing focus on passing my courses. Things will pick up. Hopefully.

Perspective

Who are you,
to say I am wrong?
You can have
your Crusades,
your White Man's Burden,
your Liberal Life
and go back
to where
you've come from.

- - -

The course criteria in Social this year is based pretty heavily on ideologies and perspective. Or, to say more with less, your perspective on ideology. It's got me thinking a lot recently about how we see things differently that people half a world away, and how we as indviduals may never be able to see past our own upbringings. It scares me to think that there's so many cultures, so many traditions, so many languages and colors and nationalities and I'll never be able to fully understand it. I will only be able to view it looking outside in, through a kaleidescope of opinions and bias.

I always thought when I was a kid I'd do a lot of traveling. I can see now, as I'm watching my peers make plans to go off to far away exotic places or stay behind just as I am, all those imaginings may never become tangible. I'm surprisingly okay with that; I have a whole life ahead of me.

A Pen Or Pencil.

I don't write
in pencil anymore.
In a little black book,
the fine marks
sit
ferment
and then fade.
A pen
is more to my tastes--
the ever enduring
permanent stains
will never fade
from these hands;
nor from that
little black book.

Venue.

Click
another one
passes through those doors
to lose themselves
in vibrations,
the growling snarls
of the guitar,
the heavy stomps
of the drums.
Click
another one
on that little silver counter.
Another one
who's come
to escape
the cold streets
outside.

Army.

In between the morning hues
there's something darker lurking;
grinding gears,
stomping feet,
gun barrels glimmer
as the sun breaks
the horizon.
Another day,
a different place,
the army marches.
Take your politics
and ideologies
with you.
We don't need them
here.

Butter.

It's days like this
that make me feel
so unlike you.
You versus me
is kind of like
comparing butter
to margarine.

You simply
can't.

- - -

One of my friends showed me a really cool website today. It's like... visual poetry I guess. It's like a combination of photography and cryptic writing. I like it, though some escape me, make me feel a little perplexed.

Ah, according to my friends, I'm always perplexed. Or lost. Or idiotic. Today has been one of those days where at every turn you just feel ridiculed. They like to tease, which is fine. I always do my best to brush it off (and I usually tease back), but I'm human last time I checked. And there's really only so much of that I can take without feeling completely torn down.

Anyways, a website for my fellow bloggers:
A Softer World

Long Weekend.

It's been a long weekend for me. I've pretty much just been working, trying to make a few extra dollars here and there. I've also been trying to get back on top of my homework, which I've let slide the past few weeks. It's mostly all done now, just have to do some sudying for Japanese to put my mind at ease. Ooh, there was a rhyme there! :)

My youngest ferret, Jojo, is sick again. She's all conjested and coughing. Really lethargic too; she won't play with my other ferret Boxer at all. All she wants to do is sleep. I'm really worried about her, so another trip to the vet might be in order. This will be the second time within the span of a month. It's frustrating, because I feel like its my fault, and also scary, because if her cold progresses too far, she could die. I've just been trying to keep her as warm as possible until the clinic opens up on Monday.

Aside from that, really there's not too much else to talk about. I hope to be able to get some new writing up soon-- it's been too long a stetch without my words.

Breathless.

It's a familiar
heart flutter
and suddenly
I can't breath.
You took it
away again.
Please return
my breath
Mr. Snake Charmer.

- - -

Today marks a year that my boy and I have been dating. It feels like (maybe this is just because I'm still so young) it's such a long time, such a vast achievement.

I like to watch old couples hold hands as they stroll down the streets of this little city. It makes me feel like there truly can be something legitimate about love, even in today's age of body image and sex appeal. I promised myself when I got into high school and attended my mother's third wedding that I would only ever marry once. If it doesn't work out, I'll never marry again.

Not saying I'm thinking about that anytime soon. I've got far too much life to live, but I'm happy I have someone to drag along on that ride.

Winter's Last Sunset.

Tomorrow I'll watch the sun rise
over pearlescent heaps of snow.
And I'll track its course,
through the ghostly wisps
of bellowing clouds.
My eyes will follow
those yellow tails and footprints
across azure sky
until I see it set
on a westerly horizon
and the faded grey
falls prey
to the gold-green
evenings of
a summer passed.

- - -

It's been a little while since I last posted. I promise, I'm not growing tired of blogger-- I've just been getting over a nasty cold. Last week I was too busy hacking, coughing, and sniffling to write anything. And FAR too tired to write anything good. But I'm feeling much better now, so I think I'll get back into the groove of things pretty quick.

Oh, Winter. Why won't you go?

It's been unbearably cold here the past few days. I'm longing to feel the warm sun on my face and shoulders again, and green beneath my toes. I miss the feeling of grass. It feels like spring is just around the corner; yet it's never been so far out of reach.

Basketball.

Every fiber,
bone,
and tendon
pull
relax
spring again.
Sweat beads,
ball leaps
through the hoop.
2 pointer.

Finally!

So today I received a letter in the mail. It was labeled from Grant MacEwan university--all blue and white. It was a letter of acceptance: I got in! YES.

I'll be going there for a Bachelor in Professional Communications. It's essentially a writing program--it sets you up to work in a lot of different places. My hope is that I'll still get to do what I love (put words on paper!), while still being versatile and able to works tons of different positions.

The only thing left to do really is figure out how I'm going to pay for all this. A Student Loan is really not an option, because my parents are seperated and re-married. : \ That leaves scholarships and money out of my own pocket: It's the only thing standing between me and going to school there.

Well for now, just knowing that I have that conditional acceptance enough. I'm really excited and very happy I got it.

Wayward Sailor.

Looking south
like a wayward sailor
in search
of warmer winds.
No verdant land
on the horizon
yet.
The cold here
burns my face
and leaves me
in ragged company.

- - -

I finished reading a book today that was called 'Better than Running at Night.' It was about a girl named Ellie who is studying abroad at a school called NECCAD. It's an arts school, and it's basically just about her day to day life and her love of art. It's about how, despite distractions, she works so hard to become a better and more subtle artist. How she rediscovers herself and her talents.

The writing in the book was simple, and it was a fast read, but I really enjoyed it for a number of reasons. The first was that it was the first book I've actually finished in quite a long while. When I was in junior high, I could tear through a book in a matter of hours. I could read multiple stories and keep them straight. This ravenous reading is really where my love of words stems from I think, but as I entered high school, my reading pace gradually slowed and at one point stopped altogether.

I don't know why that was.

I think I could partially blame it on being more concerned with my own writing. I think I could probably partially blame it on being involved with boys. I could partially blame it on my terrible grade ten and eleven English AP teacher Mrs.Andriuk, who nearly made me stop writing.

I can thank Mr.Shamchuck, my english teacher this year, for re-igniting that love of words in me. And also for encouraging some of my best writing. I can also thank thee boy, who read three books in the time it took me to read one, and who helped spur that need of reading again.

Anyways, my thought of the day is this: Can you be a writer without being a reader?

Book.

The last page
of an old book.
I feel nostalgia
baking in my bones.
First book
I've read
in a long time.

Slipped.

Grim clouds
choke out
a pale sun.
My feet
slip on ice--
I clatter
to the ground.
It's cold down here
but
not cold enough
to get back up.

Elliot Smith.

Acoustic guitar
trickles down.
Lackluster,
half whispered
vocals.
Something else
is hiding in the mesh,
between the lines
of an Elliot Smith
song.

- - -

Three new poems tonight. This one is the best of the three I think, but I put so much emotion into each one that despite their choppiness, they had to be posted. Some things just cannot sit and go stale with dust in a notebook.

Cheater.

It was
nothing--
Not
a big deal.
But the plot's
been changed.
The No-Big-Deal
has her
burning me
with flaming
olive eyes,
and giving me
the cold shoulder
while frost
creeps up her back.

Wants.

I want
to wake up
to your sleepy eyes
and cutsie bed head.
I want
to watch
our fingers, bodies, and smiles
get tangled together.
I want
to wish
for old age
to scoop us up.

I guess
we'll have to
wait and see.

Computer Screen.

Computer screen
creates pale
luminescent rays
and they are cast
along the
smooth contours
and sleepy hollows
built upon
my face.

It burns a bit,
and yet
I can't
tear my eyes
away.

- - -

The Internet is addictive. : /

Long Dial Tone.

I'll call you
everyday
till you answer
the phone
and I hear
that pearly smile
say my name.
But I hear
an endless dial tone
and I can't help
but think
maybe you've
moved on.

You always said
we could still be
friends.

Great White Shark Fight - New Song.

- - -

Great White Shark Fight's new ditty. I'm really excited to hear the inclusion of vocals, and hopefully they'll be playing some shows real soon. The plethora a breakdowns is really promising, I must say. A real headbanger! :)

Too Much.

Words slur,
dextrous slip
of the tongue.
Too much
to drink
this time
around...

A Moment.

Long nights
filled with
sleepless hours
because I'm stuck
thinking of that moment
I should never
have seen.
Clenched jaw,
eyes a flurry
of tears held back
but spilling over--
Anyways--
you and her;
she touched your arm,
walked away.
You looked understanding
but also sad.
I'm sorry to say
I witnessed
that moment.

- - -

This has nothing to do with the poem, but at school I am often spoken to specifically because of my brother. He's a little bit on the eccentric side (very in line with the rest of the family), and he tends to grab a lot of peoples attention, and not always in a good way.

This is a picture of the both of us. He wears that yellow set of goggles on a daily basis, as well as several other articles of clothing that are not among todays average teenager's repertoire. His dress style and general jubilant attitude is very much him, and as I said, not always taken in a good way.

Today was an example. This girl I know--I suppose you could kinda call her an aquaintance-- came up to me and started discussing my brother's weirdness. It would have been fine if she hadn't spit it out of her mouth in such a negative way, like she thought that I'd agree with her that he had mental issues or something. I really wanted to smack her in the face and tell her to mind her own business.

Why is it that anything slightly out of the norm is taken so negatively within our society? Why do we as people feel like we must hide certain aspects of ourselves, become something that is 'ideal' or valued to other people. I cannot believe some of things people my age will do and say just to be seen a particular way. And not only that, but we all dress the same and talk the same as to not stand out too much from the pack. I can't always say that I'm not like that, but as I get older I understand the importances of being genuine, with myself and with others.

I want very much for people to accept that those around them will have different interests and different backgrounds.

Tired.

Eyelids are still
heavy with sleep.
I feel them
closing,
I feel like
I'm drifting--
and yet,
I'm still
standing up.

- - -

I absolutely had to post this video after I watched it a few times. The main reason being that young girls need more role models such as Pink. I know that some of you are probably thinking I'm a little crazy, a little tired right now. But I'm being totally serious.

My friend and I were discussing how a majority of music videos produced and made are of the artist or band singing the song, acting badass or whatever, and how you don't see a lot of videos that elaborate on the song or add to it. She brought up Pink, and we sat down to watch a few of her own music videos.

All the videos we watched had a strong message and a story that related back to the song, and all the while Pink is really doing her own thing. This is pop music (which normally I am not a fan of) that is substantial and influential. I think we need more of that; we need more people who are considered idols or role models to put out there that it's okay to be you, to not always listen to what main stream tells us to do, and the list goes on.

Anyways, I'll stop before this becomes an impassioned rant. The video just hit really hard on an intellectual and emotional level, and I thought it was worth showing.

Edit: The video is actually reversed on Blogger...weird.

Ferrets.

Skittering feet,
funny dooks,
a slinky body
hard to catch.
Shiny objects
and panties
missing.

- - -

I have two ferrets (Jo Jo and Boxer), and I love them to death. But they really are a hassle sometimes.

Cold Water.

Up to your neck
it lies still
like soft glass.
Ripples trail
behind a hand,
brisk chill
kisses
your shoulders.

- - -

Well, my exams are now all finished, so now I've got a week full of long sweet empty in front of me. This is something I just dashed off to get back in to the routine of writing regularily.

I got this neat little word of the day calendar for Christmas; Today's word of the day is 'mirth'. I think it would be very cool to write a poem everyday, that was based around that particular word. I think I'll try starting tomorrow. Usually when I write poetry, I start with a phrase and then just build off it. I guess when it comes to writing, there's not a lot of planning or prep for me. Words are words, and I feel like it's enough to put them down on the paper. To plan it out would just obliterate the fun of being a wordsmith.

Exam Week.

So these past two weeks have been filled with cramming, stress, eating terribly and more cramming. I'm so not ready for my exams.

But whatever happens, happens. And wherever I end up, I guess that's where I end up! :)

Anyways, I realize posting has been skimpy. It will probably remain that way until about mid week.

No Mercy For The Child.

The slamming of a hard, brittle door. Pounding footsteps that drew nearer with every breath—they sent tremors up and down my spine. I dashed into my closet, slid the door shut behind me and stood there, hoping he wouldn’t sniff me out.

He always did though. I thought when I was younger that he could smell the fear, smell how it stained the air. Our house always smelt like fear. It was sickly sweet, like roses wilting on a humid day.

I wasn’t in the closet even a second before he burst into the room. The smell of alcohol and something I could not identify lingered behind him, clung to his clothing like strands of cobweb. Through the crack in my closet door I could see his musty face, small pricks of greying beard lining his powerful jaw.

I saw him turn and start towards the closet, and I scrunched my eyes shut so I didn’t have to see the savage lurching motions he made as he moved towards me.

The next thing I knew, I was dragged out by my long tendrils of hair. I remember shrieking for my mother, who I knew was in the next room. She wouldn’t come. She always was such a coward.

He beat me then, as he had many times before. His fists rained down on my face, and when I turned away, my back.

“You don’t fuckin’ dump the milk out!” He roared at me. “You useless fuckin’ brat, I’ll take yer head off!”

“It smelled bad!” I screeched in terror. I tried to hold my arms up in a futile attempt to shield myself. “It smelled bad! It smelled bad!” I cried it again and again. I cried it for what felt like impossibly long currents of time; there was no end to the sound of knuckle cracking upon my body.

A few days later, I was outside in the backyard. It was spring time, and despite the chaos and terror that invaded our home each evening, the yard was green and peaceful. When I breathed in, I could taste the rain on the air. I could smell something sweet—I thought it might’ve been all the flowers budding.

The smell of flowers is nothing like the smell of fear.

I was standing on the porch, inspecting my face in the reflective surface of the sliding door. It was swollen and pink, one of my eyes adorned a ring of dark purple, and there was a little cut on my lower lip. When my teachers asked me about all the damage, I could see the concern rippling from their faces. For some reason, concern made nervous. So I pulled my chin up and with a triumphant smile I said, “I got it wrestling with my older brother.”

A downright lie.

As I watched myself, my chin quivered a bit. Tears were welling up and spilling down the contours of my face. I licked my lips and tasted the warm salt in them.

When I looked at my tiny dejected face, I felt ugly. And I felt like I could do nothing right. Something inside me, something that now I cannot decipher, told me that everything was all my fault. My face had crumbled, and in a fit of anger I stomped off the porch in search of something heavy.

Even blinded by anger and frustration at every injustice that had ever befallen me, my hands still managed to locate a fist sized rock, rough and sparkling in the sun.

I hurled it at the porch door. It shattered. And then I ran.

Saturated/Ailment.

I see his
crinkling face
eyes caved in
with a smile
and warmth
saturates my bones
from the inside out
until he's gone--
then I feel
the ailment
of empty corners
and
empty hearts.

Voices.

Her voice is
breathy
like wind
caressing
chimes
that sing
careless jingles
on my
front porch.

- - -

His voice is
a pounding hammer
punching a nail
bruntly
through
dry wall.

Secrets - Prose.

A letter from one lover to another:

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something about me for a long time now. It’s just every time I work myself up enough to put it on the paper, my walls start caving in around me and my fingers needlessly hit the backspace key until all that I’ve written is erased. It hurts to erase it all, because I know I can’t keep it a secret from everyone forever—someone will find out, and why can’t it be you?

Why can’t it be you?

But I’m torn, lover. We’ve got such a wonderful thing going; it would be a shame to watch you walk away now. I would store my heart away, leftovers in a plastic Tupperware container. I wonder if you’d take a plate of it with you, shove it in your own fridge. Maybe you’ll pull it out once in a while, consider it might be as savory tasting as the first time, and push it to the back again.

But in the same stroke of breath, I also know the only way for this to last is to bare everything, teeth and all. I must relinquish not only the poised, cultured side of myself, but also the raw unhealed structure that keeps all that eloquence standing.

Even now I feel my whole body revolting, lurching for that ever present backspace key. I don’t know why I’m still writing this—maybe I feel like the more I write, the less chance I have to block all this away again.

All this stupid baggage I come with. You must be getting tired of it by now. My bones ache from carrying it around on my shoulders. My brain pounds from creating the exaggerated swirls to cover it all up.

It’s a shame. I was so close this time.”

Your lover.

- - -

Secrets. Whoever invented them must've been an elaborate thinker. They're strange little objects of our brains, aren't they?

I though it might be an interesting excercise to write out what might go through someone's head if they had a big secret to tell. In this case, something hidden from a significant other.

Dusty Guitar.

There's a dusty guitar
in a dark corner--
it once had a home
in my arms.

I pick it up now,
pluck tired strings
with tired fingers
and formulate chords
with tired eyes.

But my fingers
stumble
and the strings
sing
unpleasant grinds.

And I place
it back down.
There's no room here
in my full,
tired arms.

- - -

This is just a little something I wrote because I'm dissappointed I don't play as much guitar as I used to. There's just not enough time in the day to get everything done that needs to be done. And the sad part is that sometimes the things I love to do the most have to be dropped for the rest of it.

I used to be quite good. Now my fingers slur and the sound isn't quite so crisp.

The Web Brings People Together.

This band is interesting. The music was all created by musicians from all over the place. Just goes to show you the power of networking and also the power of the internet:

http://floodthesun.bandcamp.com/

It's amazing to think that even in the last, I don't know, maybe five years the web has become such a broad kaleidescope of things. You can find almost anything if you know what it is exactly you're looking for. Even if you don't, you might find something even better (I discovered blogging by accident.).

I'm also impressed with the innovation of this EP. The fact that it's so many different people, from different backgrounds, walks of life, whatever. They're coming together to create a work of art. I think in the near future we'll be seeing more and more things like this.

Stories in The Dark.

Writing
in dim light
gives my words
an edge
of surrealism--
that which
melting clocks
and endless
staircases
are built upon.

Traffic.

Traffic lights,
red,
yellow,
green.
An unceasing line
of white, white
light--
the hum of
a million and one
droning
cars.

Country Bumpkins - Prose.

The sky was dark and I sat on the front porch smoking a cigarette. The steps creaked under my heavy feet, and when I leaned forward to rest my elbows on my knees, they groaned in protest. I coughed. The sound of my hack echoed down the empty street; orange gleams from the street lamps created square patched on slick cement. The street was long and old, cracking in places. In the day, it was dusty and you could watch empty beer cans tumble through the gutter and broken glass shimmer in the evanescent rays of the sun.

All the houses in this part of town were tired, crippled things and the one moaning behind me was no exception. The place came with a whole list of repairs—things that needed fixing, needed building, needed something to run. I grimaced when I thought of the backyard. Really there was no backyard at all: it was just a patch of dirt that melded with the gravel alleyway behind the place. All scattered behind there were hungry eyes and smoked doobies. More glass. There was glass everywhere in this part of town.

This was not the place I’d imagined for my children. This wasn’t the place I’d imagined being happy, or growing old with my lovely wife. When I came from the country, from my home place, my head created exaggerated swirls of suburbia. My wallet didn’t have that kind of cash.

I wished for a big house, nice rich neighbors, a beautiful backyard with an oak tree and a swing rope like the one I had on the acreage. In my dreams, when I looked out onto the street I saw children laughing and playing kick ball in the cul-de-sac, kites flying freely and lazily on some far off breeze. I never expected to smell the thick oil of train tracks as they rattled just a few blocks away. I never expected to look out my window and see shady young adults slumping through the shadows of each sickly tree.

But it was a compromise I made for a better life.

When I was still farming, still turning to gold in the autumn sun as I brought in the harvest, I was happy. Most certainly I was happy. But there’s not much cash out there for small independent farmers any more. So I sold my home place to a big cash crop corporation and started dreaming something new.

I heard the front door swing noisily open behind me, delicate steps, and felt a slender body slink down beside me. Even under her petite frame, the steps cried out again in anguish. She had long, golden lengths of straw for hair. Currently it was all pulled into a messy bun.

“It’s awfully late; won’t you come to bed?” She asked me, her hand touched my arm gently, earnestly. “You have to wake up so early.”

All the factory workers did.

I took another long, deep drag on my smoke and then flicked it away. I smiled at her, tried to make it look easy, lazy.

“I will soon, honey.” I said. “I was jus’ thinkin’, that’s all.”

And I was. I was thinking of endless fields of golden wheat that swayed back and forth with the kiss of the wind. I was thinking of the smell of clean, deep earth. I was thinking about how nice it would be to plow the land one more time. And I was thinking about how there was no money in all that anymore.

“What you thinkin’ of?” She asked. Her voice still had that sweet southern drawl, so well hidden with the sprawl of urban life. Sometimes she could shut it off completely, become a complete and utter city slicker.

“Jus’…” I struggled to find the right words. How could I tell her, make her understand that this was not the life I’d planned for her? This was not what I wanted for Danny, and certainly not for my little angel Sally.

I wanted them to grow up strong and healthy, their backs and faces brown from long days in the sun. I wanted them to smell clean country air and I wanted them to love it as much as I did. I wanted to go back to our home place, where the roads and the fields went on for miles, where the only sounds you ever heard was the chatter of chickadees in the day and the chirp and croak of crickets and frogs in the evening.

“We should ‘a never left.” I said finally, leaning back to view a blurry, starless sky. I wondered if there were ever stars in the city. I closed my eyes and strained to hear the sounds of night I missed so ravenously. I heard the dull rush of cars on a busy highway. Far away a siren roared. City sounds.

She put her hand on my back comfortingly, rubbing in sleepy but understanding swirls. I think sometimes she missed it too, though she never out on airs of it. She took everything with a bright smile, made the best of what we had and made plans for what we would have. She was a strong soldier—I wished I was stronger.

“Come to bed soon.” She said softly—she left a delicate imprint of her lips on my cheek. And just like that, she had disappeared into the creaking house.

My eyebrows furrowed with frustration at our situation and also at my own guilt for leaving her in an empty bed.

I took another look at the street laid out before me, hoping by some act of God, we would be back there. We would be back home.

“I should never have left.” I repeated.

I stood up and followed my wife into the house, shutting the door behind me.

The Influence of a Single Word.

A single word
is lost
in a canvas
of blank ocean.
Many words
will steal
the canvas
while still wet
and change
the way
it's all
arranged.